


Jokes Together

by Yuki1014o



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Timeline What Timeline, dude idk, the auths are pretty mean :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29831568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o
Summary: The whole 'authoritarians using him and discarding him like a disposable weapon' thing kind of sent Nazbol into a depressive mood.
Relationships: Nazbol & Posadist (Centricide)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Jokes Together

Morning is a haze of sleep and sound. Alarms. Nazbol wakes to his seven AM alarm, but feels so confused and muddied that it takes him a full four minutes to shut it off. His head pounds. He went to sleep at six in the morning. Fuck. He...does not want to get up. His every limb is lead.

Back to sleep.

-

His next wakes at the eighth AM alarm, then nine, then ten, then eleven, then twelve—by noon, he’s no longer so overwhelmingly physically tired. He can form thoughts with something close to clarity. He reaches around his bed for his phone. Turns it on. Checks for replies to the posts he made last night. There are...two. He reads them both over a couple of times, but can’t find any energy to reply.

-

His blankets are heavy, too-warm, a little suffocating and sticky feeling. The windows are bright with sunlight, and Nazbol doesn’t, can’t—is too tired to face the sun. He does not want to be awake. What’s the point in that? The world is horrible. Is the _opposite_ to his ideal. And—

(Nazi and Commie called him only to discard him like trash.)

He does not want to be awake. It’s too exhausting. He has no motivation for that. The world of his dreams is infinitely more appealing.

-

He wakes up proper at two PM. He can’t get back to sleep. He checks his phone. Responds to the replies. Tries to find motivation to does something else, can’t. Goes on youtube. Clicks an upload from one of the alt-righters he subscribes to. Making fun of libs. It’s fine right up until the part where he starts taking snide remarks at communism and Nazbol just—

Nazbol closes the program and stares at his home screen. A soviet propaganda poster stares him back. Fascists and commies kill each other. He’s used to people accepting that as a reality. He—

He’s just really tired. He stares at his home screen for another ten minutes. Seconds crawl on. He can’t remember putting down his phone but now he’s just shifting around bed without the motivation to get out. What would he even do? He has no responsibilities. No one to see. No one needs him. What the fuck would he do? Eat _breakfast?_ There’s nothing to eat and he doesn't feel hungry.

So.

Time slips on.

It’s mid afternoon and isn’t this just fucking shameful. Absolutely mortifying. He wants to crawl into his skin and disappear from the world and himself. He’s already disappeared from the world; there’s no way to disappear from himself. Suicide isn’t even an option. The only suicide that exists within the world of ideology is assisted, and even that isn’t permanent.

So Nazbol exists in his bed and stars at the sheets and the walls and feels unfocused and too-focused and wishes he would get up and wishes he would fall back asleep and wishes that he had gone to bed on _time_ and wonders why he even still fucking bothers with the alarms. (Shifting them would be defeat.)

He goes on his phone. Isn’t sure what to do. There are a lot of unchecked notifications. Around thirty youtube ones, spam emails, games, and—

oh. Missed texts from Posadist. Fuck. When did that happen? He should text the other communist back. It’s really rude not to respond.

...but he has no motivation, and he feels to--something to even check the texts (some mix of guilt and not wanting to see. Just—just not enough _motivation_. Too little energy for responding.), and so he lets them...sit.

-

At three fifty, Posadist calls him. He looks at the phone screen blankly. Thinks of picking up. Almost does. Doesn’t want to. Thinks of hanging up. Almost does. Realizes that Posadist will notice the ringing ended prematurely. Doesn’t. Waits it out. The sound echoes in his ears.

Nazbol sighs and pointlessly plays tap games.

-

At roughly four ten, Nazbol hears steps down his hallway. He freezes. Pauses his game. Listens harder. A slight buzz, a hum in the air, and—

Nazbol’s door opens. Posadist steps through the door, air vibrating around him, red miasma dripping from his skin and disappearing into nothingness. The outline of his body blurs and fuzzes. More agitated than usual. His antenna twitch, his eyes roll over the room before snapping onto Nazbol.

And Nazbol—Nazbol feels such a strong wave of shame that he physically shrinks back.

“Go away,” he mutters.

Posadist tilts his head at him. “You didn’t show up for the wacky’s meeting today,” he says, voice a little thick with static, “That is unacceptable, you know? I am worried.”

Fuck. There was a meeting today? He missed a whole _meeting?_ Nazbol—he isn’t a wacky, but they’re still the only group that accepts him. Guilt tugs at his stomach. “Sorry.”

Posadist stares for a long moment. “...No. That is alright. Why?”

Oh. He isn’t about to be called worthless and laughed at? Nazbol would mock himself, if he were Posadist. Then again, Posadist has always been just a little _nicer_. Just a tiny bit more mature.

“Can you pass me my hat?” Nazbol asks, instead of answering Posadist.

The other communist hums and flicks his ushanka over. Nazbol sits half up and stuffs it over his head. He’s already wearing pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Red and blue. Posadist sits on the edge of his bed, insect-like wings spread out into something resembling stained glass. “...So.”

Nazbol straightens, crosses his legs. That doesn't erase the fact that it’s four thirty and he’s still in bed. “Why are you even here?”

“I already said.”

He did?

“What?”

“I’m worried,” says Posadist.

“Oh,” says Nazbol. Feels self conscious. He doesn't want to be something that people look down on—even though he always has been. God. So much of his modern manifestation is a _literal_ joke. He’s a joke. “Okay, I guess.”

Posadist hums. His antenna twitch again. The look on his face is expectant.

“Haha it’s nothing,” Nazbol grins, “just—like, fell asleep super late due to my crippling self hatred and stayed in bed all day thinking about how much my parents are ashamed of me!” It’s supposed to be a joke. It falls flat. Posadist’s colors flare, just a little, bright and radioactive.

“It was Nazi and Commie again?” Posadist asks.

Nazbol shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah. They—called me. Ideologically requested me. And you know I had to answer that. Who would I be if I didn’t obey my superiors? Turns out they just used my damn abilities and discarded me the moment I wasn’t needed.”

“Oh.” Posadist shifts a little. Nazbol can’t really read the other’s features. His colors have always been so _saturated_.

“It’s admirable, really,” Nazbol says, “that kind of utilitarianism. I should try to become better with that.”

Because Nazbol—sometimes he feels like a bad patchwork, even though he _isn’t_. He’s perfectly compatible with himself. He’s _proof_ of the far left and the far left being compatible. But Nazi and Commie...

they feel sharper, more honed, more defined, more dignified. They feel like both his halves but _better_. And that doesn't even fucking make sense, because Nazbol is barely even a few decades younger than his ideological parents. So how come they’ve both had regimes, both held global power, both fought and killed and slaughtered each other, and—

“Yeah,” Posadist says, “Commie is really respectable in his spirit, but that was still kind of scummy.”

“It’s expected.” Nazbol toys with his ushanka. “I mean. They’re both embarrassed of me anyway. No one cares about me lol! So whatever!”

A beat. Posadist hums and buzzes and feels radioactive. “It isn’t whatever,” he says, and if Posadist were capable of anything close to soft-speaking or quiet tones, Nazbol thinks he might be talking different. “I care about you.”

More some stupid reason, a lump wells up in Nazbol’s throat. His eyes string. “I’m a joke.”

Posadist smiles at him, wide and devious and marking trouble. “We can be thought of as jokes together.”

Fuck. _Thank you_ , Nazbol thinks, but doesn't quite know how to say so. He and Posadist—admittedly, they only met in the early 2000s, despite existing before then. Posadist had cocked his head, looked at his colors, and said _What are you?_ _An auth mix?_ _I’m Posadist._ And Nazbol had grinned and stuck out a hand and said _Hi! I’m National Bolshevism! My main criticism of Stalin is that he wasn’t_ _W_ _hite enough!_ And they took it off from there.

“Yeah,” says Nazbol.

A beat.

“We should get up,” Posadist says, even though it isn’t a _we_. It’s only Nazbol that’s down. “Start on breakfast, or something.”

 _Breakfast_. It’s almost five PM.

“Yeah,” Nazbol says, “okay. Yeah, lets do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh. I tried but this came out way way worse than it was in my head. I have no fucking idea how to write posadist&nazbol and they’re both wildly ooc, probably. I hope it wasn’t that horrible to read though? Ren, if you read this, I tried ;-;
> 
> if you enjoyed don’t hesitate to leave a comment ig uhh


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